cry little boy
by snitchesgetstitchesbitches
Summary: Father has many meanings, he has learned throughout the years of watching other kids interact with their parents. His own concept of 'father' is, to say the least, less conventional than normal. (In which Ardyn is Prompto's father and eveything goes downhill from there).
1. Chapter 1

_Here I am, again. The typical me doing stuff that her mother would frown at._

 _This fic is terrible lmao there are so many warnings in here. Expect child abuse, bad touching, creepy Ardyn, possessive behaviour, emotional manipulation, rape whether it may be referenced/implied/explicit, unhealthy relationships, father/son incest, sexual harassment, emotional/psychological abuse, drug use, and of course, daddy issues._

 _Title taken from the song Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood. Nothing belongs to me, this is just fanfic._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: take you like a drug**

The hands are _warm._ Awfully so.

They are slow heat climbing up his sides, the rough pads tracing the skin around the valleys of ribs, rubbing soap as they progress upward. He trembles, looks at the rivulets of clear liquid splattering, sliding to the drain the moment they touch the tiled floor, run by his wrinkly toes and the bigger feet centimeters behind them.

He can see his knees shaking, can see the difference between his pale, pale skin and the man's slightly darker tone. His tiny figure versus the full grown man that washes him with big, big palms-they rub circles on his less swollen belly (he's growing, bones elongating and skin stretching along with them; no more chubby Prompto, not the fat kid any longer) draw shapes on his navel, grab his hipbones too strongly, brush against rosy nipples while a dark voice chuckles ("Do you remember, my boy? I used to bathe you this way when you were barely a toddler" No, he did not remember and preferred that to the alternative), they cover the span of his small thighs, travel almost the entirety of his body-it seems disturbingly wrong, this entire scenario.

He is too scared, too unnerved by a variety of reasons, to turn around and glance at the man and wonder why this is happening at all.

His blood, frozen. His thoughts, headless animals running without a purpose. Nothing makes sense and he is afraid.

He doesn't think it's a common thing for twelve year old boys to shower with their fathers.

* * *

Father-a simple word that had his knees shaking and skin pouring sweat in a heartbeat, in a minute, in the blink of an eye, in a moment that expanded in and out of itself for too long. For forever.

Father-he had seen the word used countless times in the awed voice of his classmates, portrayed in all kinds of media as a center of stability, the fountain of every child's guidance and tranquility; he knew it was related to terms like love and warmth, he should feel glad at the mere mention of it.

Father has many meanings, he has learned throughout the years from watching other kids interact with their parents.

His own concept of 'father' is, to say the least, less conventional than normal.

* * *

His first memory is of him. He was five years old then. It was a Tuesday night and he sat with his back straight on the table across his father. They were having dinner when his father suddenly stopped, put his cutlery down and pinned his son with a smoldering gaze that left him frozen and shivering on his seat.

Later, he'd come to learn this as a universal fact: other parents looked at their children with love in their eyes, with fond exasperation, with any type of emotion different from the blank, dark look his father always used on him. The eerie eyes that studied him as if he were an interesting experiment instead of his son. Cold, calculating, judging hazel eyes.

The quietness in the room. The heavy atmosphere. The downturn of lips. The unfriendly furniture, the iciness surrounding him. And the fear and loneliness that took over his small body in the form of subtle shaking.

Staring that went on for an eternity.

A smile that alarmed him.

"Eat." Stern and amused, two attitudes, two emotions he had imagined were unconceivable. In his dad's voice they went on hand in hand.

Eat, he had been ordered. He lowered his eyes to his plate and eat he did. While hungry eyes trailed the awkward movement of the trembling fork entering the mouth of his son.

* * *

The blonde woman looked at him, squinted eyes full of hatred and her unfairly beautiful face twisted in a painful grimace. Her cheeks were flushed from the herculean effort she had just accomplished, she wasn't able to keep her mouth closed and she heaved, trying to absorb air. Her hair stuck to her skin in some places due to excessive sweating, tear tracks told the story of her grief and the man felt this was one of those times in which he couldn't really decipher whether she looked more gorgeous like this (broken, bruised, beaten) or back when she had been full of life, before her imprisonment, before she had been chosen as a test subject and her eyes shined not with loathing but with mischief.

Oh, he was sure that if her hands had not been bound to the arms of the bed she wouldn't have hesitated to throw herself at him and claw his eyes out the sockets, yelling at the top of her lungs despite the weakened state of her body. Such was the emotion that overwhelmed her. Such was the passion inside of her, still breathing, still alive. In other circumstances he would have basked a little longer in the perfect painting of human misery that she made. However, his real interest at the moment rested on the small lump in his arms.

He held the tiny thing carefully, like he recalled doing centuries ago when he had cared enough to bother with these things. Truth be told, even then, he hadn't really possessed much of an interest in children. He thought of them as a necessary evil but not much more. He had clearly been ignorant of what it would truly feel like to hold a being that belonged to him alone, knowing the pathetic and defenseless child lived because he had deemed it so, because he had decided to bring it to life.

A long time ago, all he had ever owned had been taken wrongfully from him. He had been shunned, rejected, left for dead by unmerciful Gods and the ungrateful human vermin he had once wasted his abilities on. He had nothing. Had spent hundreds and hundreds of years never really owning anything. But right now, in the medical wing of a facility in Gralea, a woman had given birth to a baby and the baby, with this pinkish wrinkly flesh, his little hands of equally little fingers, his little mouth, and his closed eyes, was his own.

Everything about it was his.

This creature was his. His and only his. Partly made of his seed, the newborn contained his genes, shared his flesh and blood.

He smiled and an unknown feeling descended upon him as he rocked the baby in his arms, softly, gently. Things he hadn't been in years. In the background, the mother of the child cried and demanded he let go of her baby. Of her son. The baby was warm and pleasant in his grasp and when he raised his eyes away from his first born, it was merely to order the nurses standing uselessly by the door to silence the nuisance already. Couldn't they see the ruckus would startle the child?

He walked out of the infirmary with his bounty, his charge, his possession, in hand. On the hospital bed, blue vacant eyes stared after the man's retreating shadow. No words formed on her lifeless tongue.

* * *

He was seven when he, one day, for reasons unclear to him nowadays, stood side by side with his dad. Smaller hand clasped in his bigger one and they were both looking at their reflections staring back from the full length mirror in his father's main bedroom.

The small boy (even for his age), haunted eyes, swollen cheeks, pouting lips, gelled blond hair (not one lock out of place), the dots scattered all over his reddened cheeks and nose. His giant doe haunted eyes. His father next to him, who couldn't look less like his son. Unshaven jaw, sharp jaw line, reddish hair, perpetually smiling lips (but it wasn't nice, not nice at all; there was always something unsettling in the manner in which his dad smiled), eyes ablaze with a thousand secrets, hidden knowledge Prompto thought was the reason for the oddities of his dad's attitude.

Two opposites in the mirror. Two opposites in real life.

"Dad," he began timidly. Quiet. Shy. Never sure of how to address his father. The man who turned from hot to cold in a second; the man that could shatter the frail hand in his grasp if he said the wrong thing. Not that he had ever laid hands on him but the boy knew instinctually that his father was not someone to be messed with. "We don't look like each other at all."

Laugh that felt like a stream of cold water descending down his spine "You inherited your mother's looks. Indeed, there does not seem to be one bit of me in your outward appearance. A real shame."

The hand on his wrist tightened.

"But do not fret, my child, for I am here, inside of you." his free hand trailed slowly up his filled out stomach until it reached the place where his hummingbird heart pulsed, fingers splaying out possessively, "Where it matters the most."

"Every cell, every tissue, the blood running through your veins: they are all me and they all belong to me."

His deep, cheerful voice. His frightened expression in the mirror versus his daddy's pleased one.

"You'll do well to remember that."

* * *

Honestly, he didn't think there was any possible universe where he would not have shrieked at the sight of his father nonchalantly standing by the bathroom's door (which, by the way, Prompto didn't remember leaving open), looking at him from head to toe appreciatively, the same way he did when he saw something that appealed to his particular tastes.

His father always looked at people like he wanted to either fuck them or just screw them over. In his case it was always a strange mix of both plus whatever other messed up shit went through his head whenever he decided to do things like this, things like watching his son's naked frame while said son took a bath. His eyes glowed red somehow as he drank in his thinner adolescent body.

Before, Prompto hadn't known better. One vague class of sex ed, interrupted every five minutes or so by the nervous laughter of his peers, was not enough to answer his many doubts regarding hi strained relationship with the man who claimed to be his father. Now at fourteen, in the pinnacle of his teenage years, at the start of his high school life, he definitely knew better. Some thoughtless comments he had heard in the hallways while passing, some morbid jokes written on bathroom stalls, some research done one day on his brand new laptop and he gathered enough information to understand his situation a little bit more.

And Grand Six, he finally comprehended the meaning of the saying 'ignorance is bliss'.

A normal reaction would have been to yell and quickly hide himself behind the safe cover of curtain showers and he would have done this had his father been any other person than Ardyn Izunia, the Chancellor of Niflheim. His both distant and ever present dad. Who watched him overly close, kept an iron grip around him, monitored his every move, made father-son interactions into some kind of twisted awkward torture that didn't make the slightest sense to him.

Dealing with Ardyn was a mental, emotional and physical struggle. This was his everyday life. Living with the danger, dancing intimately close to that ridiculously blurred line between what was considered proper or improper, experiencing firsthand what others talked about in TV (just he was not quite there yet). Not being able to really do anything about it because there was no one to talk to, no one to run to, and nowhere else to go.

At the end of the day, he was only Chancellor Izunia's son and nothing else.

Forget the normal reaction, if they were different people his father would not be intruding on him while he bathed. But he wasn't other, he was Prompto Izunia, forced into a certain context, into this sham of a family, and therefore all he did was stand shivering beneath the falling water, praying silently for his father to go away or drop dead. He crossed his legs slightly, as discreetly as he could, trying to keep the amber gaze far from what hung between his freckled thighs (another feature he had not in common with his father: the numerous dots on his skin) and crossed his skinny arms hard across his chest in a vain effort not to draw attention to his hardening nipples.

This backfired terribly.

"Prompto," his dad said. He hated how his father enounced his given name. Throaty, owning, wanting , none of them emotions a father should ever direct at their progeny. "Why so skittisk? What are you covering yourself for?" Glint of teeth. The illusion of sanity, that there is nothing to fear. "There is not a part of you I haven't seen already".

The tone he used was supposed to sound in jest. A mere joke. He could see through the act though. Got glimpses of the darkness, the possessiveness entwined with the statement. He flinched unconsciously. Adhered his back to the wall.

"If I'm not mistaken, we still showered together when you were twelve. What happened to my little boy that he now rejects me so heartlessly? So cold. Are you ashamed of your father, perhaps?"

I'm afraid of you.

Prompto shook his head in answer, his vocal chords unable to come up with an adequate response.

The words his father said. He recalled the mirror, the small kid in the mirror and his dad expressing his sick ownership of him like a pet owner shattering his dog's freedom with the heavy weight of the collar. The collar that bound them together, master and pet. Owner and owned. Creator and creation.

His tongue was sandpaper against his lips.

"I'm fourteen now, father. I… don't think it's appropriate…" His voice died. He couldn't bring himself to finish that line of thought but knew his dad would latch onto what he was trying to say immediately.

He did.

His smile turned more dangerous than before. His eyes shined with malice and again they examined the expansion of his body casually, leisurely, as if he was looking at a piece of meat and not his own flesh and blood. Or who knows, maybe it was the fact that they were directly related that made this harassment worth it for him. And Prompto wanted to cry, scream at the top of his lungs when his dad focused intently on his waist and the happy trail leading downwards. He hugged himself tighter, bit his bottom lip and looked away.

How could he feel so violated without being touched?

Many words crossed his mind then, especially one he had seen on a news channel headline that day ("Sexual Predator strikes once more…").

He blinked to keep the tears at bay.

In a second his father was on him. He gasped at the exact moment fingers pressed softly but fiercely against his throat, against his Adam's apple, and the other five phalanges nestled where the dimples on the small of his back were located. He froze. Looking up, blue wide teary eyes, at the man who gave him life, the man he should love, the man he feared more than anything. The man that returned his pleading stare with the maniacal want and curiosity of his. Detached and so involved. Devoted and uninterested.

He leant in, to the point where he was cheek to cheek with Prompto and his unnaturally colored hair brushed his jaw. His lips brushed the shell of his hear; the boy smelled wine and blood in his breath. "I'm your family, son. You're mine. So why would anything, anything, concerning us ever be wrong?"

Rotten and foul, the ill meaning sentences whispered to him in a bathroom, his back to the wall, his dad standing over him, imposing and every bit as dangerous as a serpent luring prey. And then, fast as lighning, he turned his head to the right and kissed his first born right on the corner of his lip, right where bottom and upper lip met chin and cheek. It was wet, hot and everything Prompto dreaded-the fingers threatening to choke him, the words meant to rattle him, the mouth that wanted and pushed to take what rightfully belonged to him.

A promise seared on his flesh, not quite on forbidden land but precariously close to it.

After a lifetime, he pulled away. Prompto heaved and fet his face tremble, dying to widen the distance between his father's face and his. Crazy bastard was currently dripping wet too, for getting inside while the shower was still running and now his ridiculous clothes and hair were soaked. Ardyn didn't seem to care though. He just watched him for a while and grinned, and for a second it was almost real. The upturn of lips and the crinkling of eyes.

"I'm your father."

And with that simple fact, that certain truth, he walked off, leaving a trail of droplets behind him.

Prompto was left unable to move and thinking, as he at last crumbled to the ground on his dead legs, that he might as well have said: "I own you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: but the rain never came**

Sleeping face, closed lids, button like nose, little mouth. The rise and fall of the creature's chest, the soft snoring and whimpers that came out of that little smiling mouth. His hands around him, supporting him. In a heartbeat, with those same hands, he could determine the fate of this being, decide if it would live to see another day or if it would yield under the pressure his hold could force. The rush those thoughts gave him was definitely something he had been missing in the past couple of years. Nothing, asides from moving his pieces in order to ensure the success of his long time planned revenge, made him feel nearly as excited anymore.

Which proved that keeping the baby had not been a completely nonsensical decision, despite his previous thoughts on the matter (and despite getting rid of every spawn he had produced before, seeing no possible benefits from allowing them to live).

The fallen king smiled, cooed at the little creature that was unconsciously holding onto his index finger using his small fist. In return, he held it even tighter, pushed it harder against him so that the baby's head rested near his chest, where a drumming beat sang a rhythmic lullaby.

 _"Prompto"_ he murmured. A content lion rumbling. _"My sweet Prompto"._

 _Quick. Fast. Unexpected_. A flash, a mere contemplation bred from boredom and out of nowhere _(quick, fast),_ this baby was conceived. The woman he had taken once out of that same boredom sported a protuberance in her belly, carried his legacy within, his prize, his genes, his blood, his flesh, the first achievement, the first treasure that would not, under any circumstance, be taken away from him. _Mine mine mine mine_

 _M I N E_

She was the means. The pretty box containing an even prettier gift. And after that she would not be needed.

It was _fast_ , it was astoundingly _quick_ and impressive how Ardyn adapted to this new addition to his routine. More impressive it was the fact that he wasn't tired or disgusted by it. Not even when it cried at ungodly hours in the morning (no matter, he didn't sleep much to begin with), when he had to bathe it, when it cried yet again to demand food, when its basic needs required attention (changing diapers was not a task fitting for a king) and he somehow breezed through them with a dash of annoyance (never disdain or disgust for some reason), when it made him do things he never imagined he would have to do willingly… He did not mind as much as he had initially thought he would.

Maybe it was because the small menace with its never ceasing cries and demands constantly reminded him of its presence, filled the silence in what had been his otherwise quiet home.

 _Quick, fast_ a month and then two had passed and the baby was not done yet.

 _Prompto._ That was what he had named it (him). A name for his possession.

Yes, yes. It was all true. He knew this now. There was much power to be had in a given name.

* * *

The idea started simple enough.

At first, it was nothing more than a stray thought, one more snowflake on the pile, nothing really worth of alarm. What harm could it possibly cause now anyway, right? After everything, after all was said and done, after wasted pleas and useless begging and guilt-so much guilt-there was nothing that could affect him. Obviously, he had not counted on that small snowflake turning into a giant snowball, however, and before he could do anything to stop it, it had already begun its deadly descent down the hill of his life. It was made of every broken dream, every hope dashed against the wall of his room, every imaginable universe where he didn't lead the life he had now, every bit of joy and happiness he ever derived from anything, and when it finally crashed, when it finally exploded in a million pieces of condensed frozen water, he understood what he had to do.

He looked in the mirror and saw the bruises. His eye was swollen and purple, one blue candle barely holding against the wind beneath it, devoid of warmth. He wore a bandage now on his previously unmarred forehead and a pinkish red gash ran across the slope of his nose. On his upper lip a cut bloomed like a wilting flower. His hair was unwashed and greasy, similar to the artificial hair most dolls had and it stuck uncomfortably to his cheeks, but it conveniently hid the other marks on his face.

Great Six, he was a mess.

He spent days in bed, just staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what was his place in this world. What was the use for someone like him being around? He fidgeted and turned, threw glances at the forgotten camera on his bedside table. The activity he loved the most now repulsed him; it wouldn't be the first time it happened, that as he reached for his camera his fingers froze a few millimeters away from it, stayed suspended in air shaking like it was a marginal effort he had just made and the feeling of betrayal, of hurt would prove too big for him to close the distance and grab the damn thing for once. No, he couldn't, and his hand fell limply again, dead inside like the person who controlled it.

He understood.

He understood and he didn't eat. Couldn't stomach anything solid. The man didn't care. He saw him throwing his food in the trash one day and barely paid him any attention, probably paid more attention to his work and his stupid weird books rather than him. As if he wasn't a real human. As if he was an object. _As if he wasn't fucking obsessed with him and ruined his fucking life every single day. His fault his fault his fault_

That day he slammed the kitchen door shut and ran up the stairs to his room so fast he got whiplash from it, and when he was inside he crumbled to the ground and pulled at strands of dull yellow hair wondering _why him_. Why of all the goddamned people in the world it had to be him. Why did it have to be him, the one starving, losing weight, the one dying to know what it would feel like if he just stood up and-

What was the point? What was his point? Who the fuck was he kidding?

His hands were raw, the kind of raw you'd expect to see somewhere else, in someone else's hands, in view of how the skin was, for lack of a better word, coarse, some of the areas (knuckles, fingers, back of his palm) were peeled even, scrubbed and rubbed with no mercy by him every day, every hour, in those times the filthiness he felt clinging to his being got too hard to deal with and the need to bathe seemed like the only haven where he could rest from all the darkness seeping into him.

His thoughts were deteriorating rapidly, almost as fast as his emotional stability was (if he even had one at this point).

He did what he did for all the smiles that should not have been faked, for all the friends he should have made, all the people he should have met, all the photos he should have taken, all the places he should have visited, all the moments he should have enjoyed and for all the instances of his life where he should not have wallowed in misery. He did it for the boy in the mirror he still was and would always be for as long as he lived; that small frightened child that didn't know any better and couldn't have hoped for better because he didn't even know what better was. He did it for that special person he would have found someday, the person who wouldn't accept him for who he was because he was broken, used, tainted, and because the person he was, was not really him. There was no him. He was entirely, completely, truly owned. **_His_** **.**

And, he guessed, at the end of all things, that was probably the main reason why he did it: no freedom to be had in the house of the damned.

* * *

To break free, he needed to slip deeper down the abyss.

Down to nothing.

* * *

Prompto gulped, fiddled slightly with the seatbelt holding him down.

Out the tinted window he saw families parting ways with their little ones. Filling the entrance of the school to the brim. Fathers patting their sons and daughters heads, smiling happily, telling them everything was going to be fine. Or something along those lines. He didn't really know. At the moment, because he had no clue about how those types of interactions were supposed to go asides from what he saw on TV, he thought it was genuinely weird. Seeing those kids and the way they behaved around their parents… it was disquieting to say the least.

That was not how he acted with his dad.

He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He took in first the burgundy hair, then the slight frown of his lips and the impatient tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel. Prompto swallowed. Crap, that meant he was again unhappy by something Prompto had or had not done (he never could tell which one was the correct answer).

At a loss for words, he tried to settle for a weak ghost of a smile before unfastening his seatbelt as fast as the shaking of his hands let him and went quickly to clasp the door handle, needing the relief the absence of his father's overbearing presence brought him. The problem with his escape plan though, was that when he pulled the handle it didn't budge at all. He stared in horrified silence at the offending object, his throat too dry to formulate sounds.

"Have I taught you no manners, son?"

Cold, so cold. And cutting.

The boy rubbed his sweaty palms on the front of his new pants, turned his head to meet the eyes that never made him feel safe.

"I'm sorry, sir" he mumbled softly, aware that when his father was in one of his pissy moods he preferred to be called 'sir'. Nevermind that, he still didn't know what he had done wrong.

"Aren't you forgetting about something, Prompto?"

Oh Gods, the blood was flushing out of his system so fast he started to feel faint and he really had no clue about what was that something he forgot. He did his homework in time, if that was what his father was implying. Which didn't add up actually. He always did schoolwork early because his father was a man with a fervent hatred for mediocrity, had been told as much in that creepy tone since his first day of school and that he was expected to be the best. _Ardyn Izunia was a man with a name to uphold and nothing less could be expected of his own son._ He had said something similar to that, more or less, and while Prompto couldn't fully understand yet, he was aware that his dad was kind of important and therefore, he couldn't allow anything to reflect badly on him, not even his grades. Besides, his dad supervised him sometimes, if he got home early from work or when he had to do Gods know what. Stood silently by his side, melting his skin off thanks to those eyes that never left him alone, never ceased to observe him, and generally messing up his concentration when the man didn't feel like tormenting him, or sat down next to him and pointed out his mistakes, smiling from ear to ear, amused by his son's increasing shame and mistakes.

(He mocked him so much sometimes, it became common for him to see wet dots form on the page he had previously been writing on. His nose running down, wiping snot on the back of his long sleeved sweater. And his dad looking like the cat who got the cream at the prospect of being the reason why his child was crying. Enjoying the blood blossoming prettily under that pale skin, the pretty freckles and the watery eyes that wouldn't dare look up to face him.

 _"Prompto, Prompto, Prompto"_ he'd say then, dragging the name each time he let it flow out of his mouth. He did it in a way that made the boy believe saying his name more than once was some sort of binding spell.

Years later he would realize how absolutely fucked up the entire situation was.)

All he dared to do was return the heavy gaze settled on him, tried to ignore the sudden twist in his dad's face that indicated a smile was on its way.

"To say goodbye to your father, of course." He laughed, loud and mean. Prompto trembled.

The laughter stopped and the grin faded away, like a bad dream. "So what must you say to your father, boy?"

"Goodbye, dad."

How in the Six's names was he supposed to be taken seriously when his voice came out so small, so defenseless, so childlike. So afraid.

An eyebrow was raised. More tapping on the wheel. "And what else?" When Prompto said nothing, he pointed one finger at himself, more precisely at the corner of his mouth. "Don't you want to give your father a goodbye kiss?"

Oh.

There was something weird there. Something off about what he said. Something in how his pupils seemed slitted, something about how the teeth in his full toothed smile looked sharp enough to cut and tear. Something definitely changed in between the time before he asked the question and the now in which Prompto stayed paralyzed, unsure of what to do. His skin crawled and the thought of what he had eaten for breakfast had his stomach in knots.

But he ended up doing it, because he was eight years old, this wasn't the first time his dad asked him to kiss him and as far as he knew, there really was nothing wrong about what was happening. Nothing wrong in his father's eyes, nothing wrong in his father's treatment of him, nothing wrong in the dynamic set between the two. He was his dad, and he owed him everything.

Prompto nodded, leaned up until his lips mildly brushed his dad's cheekbone. Felt the slight rasp of stubble. And there it was, the smell so characteristic of him that now Prompto was not physically capable of thinking of herbs, woods, forest and poisonous fruits without being reminded of his father. The scent made him feel dizzy so he began to pull away, only to be stopped by a vice like grip on the nape of his neck. He had one second alone to glimpse the dangerous shine in amber eyes before his dad pecked him on the lips.

Softly.

Tenderly.

Caress of skin on skin.

Blue widened further and his dad's eyes were dark. Dark like the sky announcing the arrival of a storm. He was afraid instinctually as his father's mouth connected with his tight lipped passage once, twice, thrice (those eyes pinning him down, holding the threat of what would befall him should he move), four times; the taste of expensive whiskey and the taste of something he would never forget in later years.

All at once it was over. The thumb on his neck rubbed circles over his hummingbird pulse and the man drew away from him, his expression the most satisfied he had seen him wear in days and he… He wanted to get out. His lips burned. His eyes stung. "Good boy, _Prompto_." Despite the confusion, his heart still soared at the compliment, felt himself relax at his father's approval, at the fact that he had made his odd dad happy in some way or another.

Removing the hand on his nape, his father said "Now, run along little boy. You wouldn't want to be late to class, would you?"

The implicit command demanding to be followed. The pressure and subjugation he was being subjected to. He didn't know any of these things. Wouldn't know until he reached his teenage years.

He smiled.

"Love you, dad."

 _No, no you don't. It's more complicated than this. Don't be stupid. Don't say this to him. It will only get worse._

He didn't notice the appraising stare he received as he hurriedly climbed down the car, muttering a 'see you later, dad" under his breath.

For some reason, once he stepped inside the school, he felt his knees buckle.

* * *

 **A/N: Remember, reviews are always appreciated :) Even if you write only to say hello or to hate on the story, I'll be content.**

 **Reply to CowrdlyCaroLion: Ohhh, thank you very much! Yes, this story is dark and it will only get darker as time goes on. And I'm really glad that you like my writing style :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: i know how much it matters to you**

Life could be a real bitch when it wanted to be.

In the worst way possible.

He coughed compulsively, feeling something other than saliva fill up his mouth. His taste buds were already used to that taste in particular and he had no problem recognizing what it was. Hot, salty, red. He coughed again and his insides squirmed and this time he knew his mouth was not the only part of his body simmering in blood.

His eyes could not see beyond the darkness, he tried to open them but when he did his head throbbed like he had been hit straight in the forehead with a hammer. His brain pulsed as if a fist was squeezing it and he winced in pain. The more aware he became of his surroundings, the more his pain increased, the more he noticed the many injuries and wounds keeping him glued to the ground.

Somehow, he was able to muster enough strength to move one previously numb hand to the place where the pain was almost unbearable and when his fingers were met with wet and warm stickiness-touched what was clearly the telltale sign of a breach of skin near his bellybutton-he almost let himself fade back to unconsciousness.

Astrals, what had happened?

Tears gathered at the corner of his eyes, or maybe it wasn't tears but sweat that clung to his face and slid down his cheeks. He tried to call out, ask for help, whine or moan in pain, tried to do anything in order to understand- but as he did the blood clogged his throat again and the coughing fit returned with unnerving viciousness. It was like drowning out of water. Him, the boy who had barely toed the sea shore and was already suffocating. This was insane. He was losing his mind. This was not happening.

Eyes still closed, right hand pressed to the chasm in his torso, he aimed to sit up resting his entire weight on his available arm. Bad idea. He yelped, bit his tongue, more saltiness overwhelmed his taste buds as he crumbled back to the ground-lightless, weightless, less substantial than air-, his arm burning as if someone set it on fire. His muscles cramped, his breathing deepened and a ringing sound was all he could hear. A tiny voice in his head whispered 'broken arm'.

Gasping in pain, splotches of images began flashing before his squeezed shut lids. Blue blazers. School uniform. Loosened tie. Smug smirk. Lips connecting and wandering hands. Disheveled blond and red hair. Shy laughter and a strange feeling of safety. Field trip. School bus.

 _School bus!_

 ** _Norwin!_**

Fighting the waves of hurt, he struggled to a semi sitting position clawing at the metal floor with his uninjured hand-forgetting entirely about the rush of red flowing from his abdomen-and his blue eyes now wide open in alarm. His heart pounded frantically, its beat maddening in the ominous quiet. Searching for the familiar mop of red curls he had come to appreciate the past couple of months, the familiar happy face that greeted him every day at school. Norwin. The warmth of his hand on his, his skin on his, the light stubble when they-

He didn't notice the mangled corpses of his classmates. He didn't notice the body of the girl who sat two seats behind him in geometry class hanging precariously from a window, pierced by broken glass. He didn't see the group of whispering bullies piled one on top of the other, their necks twisted in eerie parody of the gruesome deaths in B movies. He didn't see the distorted expressions and lifeless teenage kids he used to see every day. He didn't see the blood splashed everywhere the eye could reach.

No.

Nononononononononononononono

Silent cries escaped him. Gods, why why why why

Why this Why him

He hated him so much it was all his fault killer monster bastard he hurt his insides were burning and he was hot and sticky but not only with sweat nononono it wasn't just sweat worse worse he needed to wipe his face he could feel in in his mouth stuck to his hair and his cheeks he was dirty dirty unclean water he could not stand to be bathed in this

(The body lying next to his. That is what he saw. His body that had been laughing and joking with him just minutes ago possessed no face anymore to joke and laugh with. The neck was cut in half, red flesh similar to the cuts of meat in cuisine channels gave way to the chopped bone that united head and neck with the upper body, and said ginger head was set not too far away from him, no, it was set precisely in a position where its green doll eyed stare met his teary eyed one, his horrified gaze and this could not be true.

He was drowning on his own bilis. He was angry. He was powerless. He was dying.)

(Please someone, anybody….save me.)

* * *

It was safe to say Prompto was well known at school. Not in the member-of-the-popular-crowd kind of known but in the equally-as-weird-as-his-father kind of known. Despite his Academy being one of those schools were only the richest of the richest could attend and with most of the students being part of Gralea's high society and what other fancy nonsense he couldn't care less about, Prompto's status as the son of the eccentric Chancellor Izunia did not pass unnoticed.

Teachers made sure to treat him with a certain deference missing when dealing with other kids, praised him constantly even when he didn't do anything to justify compliments. In the cafeteria his portions were always more substantial than what it was served to other students and the serving lady's eyes never strayed to make eye contact. Wherever he went he was used to feeling the heavy weight of stares, conceited boys and girls whispering and burning gazes on his back as he tried to pretend nothing of this bothered him.

Judging words thrown at his back, never to his face.

Happy smiles and friendly salutes until the moment he turned his back on them, which was when the true facets surfaced to the light. He knew this, teachers and students alike, those who looked him in the eye and said pleasantries to his blank face were the ones who'd badmouth him and say foul lies when they thought he could not listen. Sharp tongues mocked him. (Did you see his face? Jeez, he gives me the creeps) Insulted him. (Man, what a freak. Who does he think he is? He sits there all high and mighty and refuses to talk to anyone). (This is the son of Chancellor Izunia. How pathetic. What a bland child). (Antisocial loser. Just because he has better grades than anyone else doesn't mean he has the right to prance around as if he is superior to the rest). (My mom says Chancellor Izunia is creepy as fuck. Seems like Prompto has not disappointed in that area at least). (Yeah, the guy might have done lots of stuff for the Empire but my dad has met him and says he wouldn't want our family anywhere near him). (Are you kidding me, guys? Seriously? He might be odd but my family and I met him once at a party and he's actually very charismatic. Prompto in comparison is dull, not to mention he's not like him at all. Poor Chancellor, to have him for a son). (That we can agree on. Prompto doesn't even have a semblance of a personality). (He probably has lots of money and has time to spend it on all those candies he brings, the pig) (Ugh, disgusting how he fills his mouth. Can't he see how fucking obese he is?) (Fat ugly boy) (Little pig, little pig).

He was used to it. Or tried to be as much as he could.

He remembered his first month at The Academy had been a hell of a different kind from the one he experienced at home. He knew he was overweight and he knew he wasn't worth much at the end of the day, that the sole value of his existence was due to the person who owned him-( the mirror and the open palm over his beating heart) – he called father. Still, it wasn't the same knowing all this to having to hear his insecurities given voice by a bunch of posers who had nothing better to do other than complain, whine and make school life more challenging than it had any right to be.

One day it got so bad he couldn't find it inside him to not dissolve into sadness, was not physically capable of not crying his eyeballs out of their sockets. From the moment he arrived home, to the instant his father returned from work, he didn't stop. He cried and cried, desiring for everything to just end, and cried even more when he noticed his dad's shadow looming over his folded, shivering form on the couch, knees drawn up to his chin and arms wrapped firmly around them to keep his legs close to his chest. Wingless butterfly twisting in agony on the couch.

He choked on sobs, willed himself to be quiet. Meanwhile the eyes of nightmares perused him slowly; they were stinging ants crawling up and down his body, waiting for an opening to sink their poisonous fangs into him.

His dad had never laid a hand on him. He was a tactile kind of guy- or he was around Prompto- but not of the 'violent kind'. He didn't need to. Not when his tongue knitted string after string of venom together, lethal enough to put to shame any harm a slap or hit could ever hope to accomplish. Lessons, he always said, were better ingrained within individuals via emotional and mental impact; any other way was guaranteed to result less effective- humans as a whole needed constant remainders, constant conditioning (for what?) that required to be executed first and primarily from the inside. And, he'd add, smiling from ear to ear as if he was the funniest thing to ever walk the earth, unnecessary acts of violence displeased him greatly. _Violence is for the uncivilized and the savages, son._ Yeah, right. Prompto believed that was all merely fancy talk (of which most he didn't understand) to justify why he enjoyed bullying him so much oh, if he had only known.

Besides, from the very beginning, ever since the time he began constructing memories, the night he looked across the dinner table to meet the dark stare that never vanished from melted gold, he knew Ardyn Izunia was a man uncannily tied to violence, despite his claims stating otherwise.

Was capable of dangerous things, of committing that which he preached against.

His being exuded violence. Repressed violence. There were hints of this in every of his movements, every graceful gesture he made, every cheerful word he voiced. The gleam of cruelty was reflected in what he did with careful hands, in his permanent mocking speech, in the glint of his eyes and in his curved mouth when he smiled. There was something sharp, something that was out to for blood tucked in his marrow. Everything about him was designed to maim and destroy, and it showed anytime he did as much as open his mouth to speak.

There was no him without that edge. He didn't need to rampage to be cruel and he absolutely did not need brute force to scar a life.

And this was why the boy was permanently walking on eggshells around his dad. He might not hit him. He might not pinch his cheeks or leave bruises to decorate his admittedly frail skin. In the end, none of that mattered. He certainly felt like he had received a beating afterwards anyway.

And that was why he wished then to fuse with the couch below and waited patiently for the worse part to come.

The worse part never came that afternoon.

His father wore the grin that spelled trouble, the spark in his irises screaming danger and promises of sweet insults, even the smell …Gods his smell was a reminder of all the awkward moments shared between them. Yet, he acted completely out of character. All he did was chuckle, bending over slightly to catch his son's watery gaze. A hand fell heavy on top of his head, mussing his hair mildly before slipping stray locks of corn colored hair behind his ear and away from his sweaty forehead, to see his tormented expression with more clarity, probably.

It was the type of intimate act that had his teeth chattering for unknown reasons.

He forced his body to not hyperventilate, to stay still.

"You seem sad." Fingers caressed the side of his face, touched the freckles on his cheek. "And you are crying _pretty, pretty tears_ ," he sang mockingly.

"But these tears are not **for me** , are they?"

His bottom lip trembled. He shook his head 'no'. No, not this time dad. But that wouldn't last, would it? Because he loved being the center of attention. The reason for every tear that spilled. Enjoyed the most acting as the handkerchief that wiped Prompto's tears.

"Did something happen at school?"

It was a normal question. Why did he have to see it as ammunition to bother him later?

He loved his dad.

Lips shut tight. Shook his head again. He heard his father sigh exaggeratedly.

Ardyn cocked his head to the side and half his face was clouded in shadows. Red gleamed back at him. "What was it that did it? What broke you first? Was it the insults? The much skinnier children making fun of your physique because you are… "

 _Don't say it. Don't say it, please. I know already. I know I'm different, that I'm not like everyone else. I know I'm not pleasant to look at, just I beg you don't…._

"… **Fat**?"

Not an ounce of tact was present as he said the word Prompto detested the most. Immediately he felt bad. The waterworks returned and he remembered the kids in the hallways laughing at him. The pointed looks at his round filled out belly and the sneers during lunch period. He remembered his own miserable face in the mirror judging the body that was heavy and ugly and overall abnormal.

"Because you eat too much? Because you enjoy sitting in the cafeteria and stuffing your mouth like the starved little thing you are? Because you weight more than any lad your age should and it shows clear as day?"

He paused, looked at him in a calculating manner previous to spontaneously bursting in manic laughter.

In front of his son he behaved like the mad man he most likely was.

"How many times have I told you already child? Refrain from acting like a hungry animal and others might treat you like an actual human being." His smile was awful. Prompto could not, for the life of him, understand why every time his dad smiled it felt like a death sentence was being issued. "They are absolutely right, Prompto. Haven't I mentioned how abhorrent you look when we share meals together? To say the word disgusting would be an understatement. Apparently I've raised a pig for a son, all along. Just look at yourself. Your school uniform does not even fit you anymore. Everything they might have said about you? It is all indeed true."

This he said while still rubbing his pads over his cheek gently, as if he cared. His tongue pierced yet his touch was reverent (hungry) as he wiped the new round of tears cascading from his now puffy eyes.

"However, you must not allow them to see it is, in fact, true." And his tone changed. The glee was gone, only cold severity remained. Compelled by the sudden turn, Prompto's gaze shyly moved to meet his father's. "Weakness," he said "is not equal to lack of physical strength or the sum of all your faults, as society has led us all to believe. Weakness is what occurs when you allow others to seize knowledge of your shortcomings to use them against you, aware that you are not confident enough to face them and not succumb under that pressure. And that is your main problem, my boy. You are weak. You are fragile. You…"

He licked his lips before continuing, delighted for reasons beyond his son's comprehension. "You _care too much."_ Undeniably delighted. _"_ Others will take advantage of this, because they can smell your weakness. They can sense how easily breakable you truly are. But you can pretend, son. You were gifted with reason and sensibility for a purpose. Instead of groveling at their feet, instead of hiding or running away, instead of lamenting and crying like the pathetic boy who **needs** his father to solve his problems for him, stand your ground, look them in the eye and prove to them they hold nothing over your head. Even if you have to fake it."

"Do not let vermin try and put themselves on the same level as you are."

The tears ceased to fall. The blond did not know exactly when it happened, but at some point he must have sat up, uncurled from his folded position on the couch, and now his cheek was squashed against his dad's chest and he was being crushed in the tight embrace his arms provided. The fingers that had brushed his tears away were massaging his scalp ever so softly and the boy did not know if he felt like crying again or laughing. He settled for returning the hug with all the strength he had because he couldn't breathe and because in spite of the warmth of his father's body heat, his entire body was chilled and numb.

He loved his dad… even when he said awful things, even when he bullied him. He loved his dad because he hugged him like this after the damage was done.

He could pretend, alright. He could pretend everything was okay if that is what he had to do.

His breath brushed the shell of his ear when he spoke and he shivered. "Moreover, only the opinion of someone equal to you shall be the one that matters. What the unfortunate offspring of Gralea's finest think does not matter in the grand scheme. Should and will not matter to you. Therefore, the only critics, the only comments, the only opinions that will mater to you are the ones given by me. Because I'm your father. And you are **mine.** "

* * *

 **"Aren't you mine?"**

* * *

There was a transfer student in his class. Barely a week had passed since that strange bath session with his dad (he was still shook about it to this date) when the red headed twelve year old stepped inside the school as if he owned it. His uniform disheveled, loose tie, shirt ruffled and untucked, devil may care grin plastered onto his not unattractive face and hands shoved inside his pockets, he stood next to their homeroom teacher and presented himself as Norwin Crestbow.

From his curly mass of hair to the mean streak to his smile, he spelled troublemaker. Of course, everybody instantly loved him. Prompto had shaken his head, pursed his lips and returned to the book he had been reading before the untimely interruption. Why bother giving him any more of his attention when he obviously had that air of better-than-thou, of being part of the so called in crowd? No, he did not waste his time on people like that and specially not when he was so painfully right for Norwin became the focus of interest of the entire freaking grade on his first day of school, and the boy relished under the scrutiny and his classmates fuss, almost like he was born to be the main character in the stupid charade people called high school life.

So maybe Prompto was a bit cynical about the entire ordeal but he had plenty of reasons to. Who cared either way? It wasn't like he would have to socialize with Norwin anyway. Boys like him stayed away from boys like Prompto and that was the end of it.

Except that it wasn't. Life could be a bitch when it wanted to, he should have engraved that tiny fact inside his head already, because it simply loved to mess with his head. Thus why he should have expected Norwin to conveniently approach him that Monday during lunch break and sit on the empty desk next to his. Instead of walking out to the cafeteria with his band of admirers in tow he lied to them and sneaked back to the classroom with the single minded purpose of screwing Prompto's favorite period of the day. Figures.

He flashed him his trouble maker smile, dimples flaring, and extended out a hand towards him. "So, I noticed you sitting here all alone and I thought I probably haven't introduced myself yet. The name is Norwin. Yours?"

Prompto was half tempted to raise an eyebrow. The ego on this one was strong. What was happening? Was this the 'annoy the fat kid' day again? Was that what he was playing at? If it was then damn, this boy had to be the absolute worst; he had not even heard the rumors about Prompto yet. But he swallowed his concern and worries for the moment and took out his best weapon: he smiled _(But you can pretend, son)_ and shook his hand.

"I'm Prompto Izunia" he said with more cheer than what he actually felt whenever he had to say his full name. "Nice to meet you. Sorry I didn't say hi before. I guess I was too absorbed with my book."

"Sure, no sweat." His hand was still firmly clasped around his own. Red bushy eyebrows shut up to his hairline. "Wait. You're Chancellor Izunia's son?"

"In the flesh."

 _Now could you let go of my hand, pretty please? And I know all of the bullshit you're going to say now. That we don't look alike. You are going to mock me. Make fun of me because of my weight. And my baby face. And do all of the things that people like you always do._

"Wow." Green eyes widened comically, his free hand went to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. "Then we know each other! Yes. I remember. Once at a party when I was six. We met there, right? Do you remember? I was there with my parents and you were with…your dad…."

"Really?" This was unexpected. Prompto closed his book and tried to recall. He had assisted to so many of those it was absurd to assume he'd be able to remember one in particular, especially at that age. After a couple minutes of awkward silence he surrendered. "No, I don't remember. I'm sorry?"

Why did that come out like a question and why did the forest green of Norwin's eyes darken increasingly?

The other boy's nostrils flared slightly and the smile on his face turned rigid at the corners. "That's alright. It doesn't matter really."

It didn't? He shrugged internally.

"And how is that going for you?"

"How is what?"

"Being the Chancellor's son."

Oh. He understood now. Norwin was probably taking to him for the connections a friendship with Prompto would entail. Something acid churned inside his stomach at the thought, but before he could end the conversation, Norwin continued talking. "I… I don't want to be rude or anything but your father…. Your father is very off-putting, isn't he?"

His heart stopped.

"Off-putting how?" Then it was racing. He leaned closer to the red headed boy on the desk next to his, scanning his face with interest and missing entirely the small shift of pupils to somewhere below the nose.

His lips were dry so he licked them.

Norwin made a choked sound and let go of his hand as if it was on fire. Wide eyed gaze flying to the board at the front of the room.

Was it possible that he saw too the strangeness within his father, that which transcended his manner of speaking? The one he witnessed everyday at home?

"Like I said, it was not my intention to offend you but he is…. There is something about him that is just plainly off. Here I was thinking my parents were, well, definitely something else and then there was you…"

His head turned in his direction so his stare could find Prompto's again but he saw something he didn't like or maybe something that was not there because he shook his head, like a small kid waking up from a nightmare, and said quite loudly "You know what? Forget it. This was stupid. Talk to you later, blondie."

And without further ado, he was up and out of the classroom faster than Prompto was able to say the word 'shit'.

A full month passed following that strange event-so weird it managed to get a special spot on Prompto's 'most fucked up things that have happened this year'- and Norwin had not directly engaged him ever since. As he had first guessed, the red head naturally joined the school's elite and only hung around the 'cool kids' in their grade. Fact that did not bother him and was not surprising in the slightest. What bothered him-and okay, maybe disappointed him a little- was that he had also joined the group of stares persecuting him around the Academy. Him and his groupies were constantly focused on him, not doing really anything that would be considered wrong or would guaranteed punishment from the teacher's part, but the intention behind their actions was clear in their laughing eyes. But it didn't matter. Whenever their eyes met, he'd remember the day crying on the couch and he would simply smile back at them, as if he didn't give a fuck whether they thought he was lame or not.

For a while, he was in peace. Until this elusive peace shattered on a cold November Friday. The convenient day their science teacher woke up and thought it would be a good idea to give a bunch of immature spoiled brats The Talk via a two hours long lesson full of innuendo, disturbing imagery and poor depictions of male and female anatomy. It was hell. And it was about to get worse for the Chancellor's son, who was staring horrified at their teacher when a paper plane landed, inconspicuous, on top of his desk. He closed his jaw, which already hurt from the strain with a resounding 'snap', and grabbed the carefully folded plane with sweaty hands. He looked up, brow furrowed, to find the dangerous smile of a certain green eyed delinquent as he prompted him to unfold the paper plane. His goons were whispering and failing miserably to not look like they knew this was a stupid prank pulled by their 'oh so clever leader'.

Prompto felt the need to give them the finger, though he stopped himself in time and managed a strained smile that looked as fake as his teacher's wig. Whatever. Fuck them. He would unfold the dumb plane, read or see the insulting message inside, throw it away in the trash can later and move on with his life. This was childish and inconsequential, this would not affect him. Yep. He nodded and began unraveling what was it that contained the folded sheet of paper, that was funny and scathing enough apparently to cause a row of prepubescent boys to laugh behind their elbows. Oh but how disappointed they'd be, especially that bitch Norwin, when they saw Prompto's unruffled attitude faced with their ridiculous antics-

What. The. Actual. Living. Fuck. Was. This.

Jaw met the floor. His fingers shook in a mix of embarrassment and aggravation. If he had looked at his face in a mirror, he would have seen how his face had turned several tones of lobster red, more flaming than Norwin's own hair.

The paper, turns out, was decorated with a very specific and incredibly detailed drawing showing the resident class's chubby boy getting nailed by none other than the most popular guy, if not of their entire grade, of their classroom at least, and Astrals, Prompto was going to fucking murder him. His cheeks burned hot as he took in the positions they had been drawn in. Prompto was on all fours, completely naked, his butt in the air and the look on his face was literally sin itself-what the fuck, who on Eos drew him crying and with wanting droopy eyes, rosy blush giving his cheeks an erotic tint to them. It was disturbing how anatomically accurate his body was replicated on paper, everything looked almost the same, except for his dick which did not look like _that_ at all. And Norwin, slimmer, thinner, too fit for a twelve year old, normal Norwin, knelt behind him, naked as well, captured in the motion of sliding his dick (that was something he could have lived without seeing, damn it) inside his ass, blushed too from the effort and wearing that disgusting smirk Prompto would be soon wiping off his stupid face.

On top of the drawing from hell were the words 'This is How Babies are Made' in extremely fancy typography and below that was a question in Norwin's cursed handwriting accompanied by two marked checkboxes.

 ** _You and me Prompto. What about it? Would you like to copulate with me and aid me on my quest to repopulate Niflheim, plus show the world how sex is actually done?_**

 ** _Yes OR Yes_**

Crestbow was a dead man. He heard the sound of the paper crumpling beneath the force of his fist. That motherlover was going to die the most gruesome death that has ever been experienced by a human being ever and yes, he was going to rip his head off like he deserved and laugh all the fucking while.

What was that guy's damage? What did he gain by doing such a thing?

Realistically speaking, Prompto should have known the moment he drew his eyes away from the drawing to focus them on motherloving Norwin, he would instantly deflate. _(You are weak)_ His anger was replaced by humiliation, a good dose of embarrassment with some confusion on the side and all he wanted to do was bang his head repeatedly against his desk until he forgot the entire events of this forsaken day. Or at least until he fell unconscious. Any of those options would be very much welcome.

He might have proceeded with that plan had Isobel-the girl who occasionally managed to surpass him in tests and sat behind him -not raised her hand and asked the question that would forever shift his perspective and the way he viewed the world.

She interrupted the teacher mid speech about the importance of having safe sex versus the consequences that came with unprotected sex. Fun stuff, really.

"Excuse me, Mr. Berg, I have a question that I think would be beneficial for us all to know the answer of."

Mr. Berg scratched his bare scalp, told Norwin and his cronies to shut up for the twentieth time. Then after pausing the presentation, he agreed to answer her question even though it was not time for the Q&A yet.

"Ask Away, Miss Isobel."

"What is **incest**?"

Every noise in the classroom died. Everyone stopped moving. Every student that had been chatting before closed their mouths simultaneously. Even the ones who had fallen asleep woke up in alarm. Prompto turned around and stared at her, forgetting momentarily about the paper in his hands, but because the others did. He did not know either what that meant and he did not know why a few of the kids in the class started turning green or looked simply disgusted or even horrified. The others, he assumed, fell quiet because they too wanted to know why that word was so important.

The teacher paled considerably. A bead of sweat fell down his forehead. "Incest?! For Shiva's sake Miss Isobel, where did you hear that word?" He exclaimed, looking out the classroom's door as if expecting someone to come in and arrest him.

"On TV, sir. I was watching a crime movie and one of the characters mentioned that the criminal was suspicious of committing incest. I assumed that it was related to sex somehow, am I wrong?"

"No… no you are not."

The visibly nervous man sighed before saying, "This is a sensitive topic children and must not be taken lightly. I don't think I'm the best suited person to tell you about this but it's the responsible thing to do. Incest, as Miss Isobel just mentioned, is certainly related to sex. To put it simply, it's sexual intercourse between people who are consanguineous, ergo, who possess blood relations-"

"You mean, sex between family members?"

"Yes, that is one way to define it Miss Isobel."

"Like brother and sister? Ugh, disgusting!"

"Why would anyone want to do it with family?"

"Do cousins count, professor?"

"Who'd be sick enough to do it with their own sister?"

"What about, for example, father and daughter?"

"Enough! Be quiet! Don't speak all at once, one at a time!" Mr. Berg said, putting his hands up to signal his students to calm down. "And to answer your doubts, yes. Sexual acts with anyone who you might share genes with is considered incest. Incest is illegal and unnatural, kids. Even in Lucis, may the Emperor forgive me, incest is seen as a sin and a crime punishable just like any other offense imaginable. The worst case of incest is that of a sexual relationships between first degree relatives, which are forbidden everywhere on Eos. By that I mean those that most of you just mentioned: sex between siblings and sex between parents and their children."

"Of course it's unnatural! How does this even exist anyway? Who would do this willingly?"

"Perfect, Mr. Conor. You hit the nail in the head. That is the point. It's not really that simple. Most of the time, incest is a non consensual act, rare are the times when it's actually consummated between two consenting people. So in other words, most cases of incest are rape. Normal and sane people don't feel desire towards their family members but once in a while there comes a certain kind of individual with no morals whatsoever that either doesn't care or can't help their twisted needs and end up taking advantage of the object of their lust. And this is where child sexual abuse comes in to the fray. Statistics prove that a majority of child abuse situations are perpetrated by older family members like an older brother or a father, who can easily manipulate the children into doing things they do not want to-"

The world crashed at his feet.

There was no sound.

There was no light.

There was no hunger.

There was nothing but this.

Unable to hold it in any longer, Prompto painted the floor with his lunch and stomach acid while his teacher described scenarios in which a father took sexual advantage of his daughter (son).


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: *Raises from the dead to post another chapter*  
*goes back to being dead*  
Oh before I go, there is implied/referenced drug use in this chapter but it's kind of subtle. **

* * *

**Chapter 4: it's crazy what you do for a friend**

His arms hurt. He tried not to wince when a group of flailing children ran past him in the general direction of the garden and one of them knocked shoulders with him. Obviously the kid didn't mean to, but accident or not, the pain still flourished bright white in front of his eyes. For a while, he stood blinded, shaking and trembling, his hand desiring to reach up and grab at his throbbing shoulder to try and… make it stop somehow. He knew better by now though, the moment he attempted to do anything of the sort his shoulder would collapse.

When the burning pain subsided and he was able to breathe normally again, he looked nervously around the grand ball room in search of his parents, remembering their stern words that early afternoon. _You better behave, ungrateful mutt._ His mom had grabbed him forcefully by the bicep and thrown him against the wall with astounding force for a woman who did absolutely nothing other than snort that strange white powder thing he often found all over the house (he'd tried it once, to see what was so interesting about it, but his nose burned and he coughed and then he had felt terrible and ill for the remainder of the day). It had been weird, since his mother was more of the insulting type. His father was the one who usually got physical with him, slaps, hits, punches, kicks. _Tough love, son._ Probably she was still mad at him for telling dad about that time mom brought another woman home and had loud sex with her. That or because she was upset he even knew what sex was.

Norwin had always been a precocious kid, he caught on things quickly. More out of necessity rather than personal preference; he had to learn facts faster if he wanted to keep up with his parents' unstable moods. Especially today, now that he had gained his first dislocated shoulder. Well, according to the internet that was what the sharp pain that surfaced whenever he tried to move his shoulder meant. When his mother pushed him, he had been standing near the entrance of his room and his arm collided exactly with the door frame. His shoulder had popped out forwards instantly, making a resounding cracky noise he'd never forget. Thank Ifrit his tailored clothes covered him in a way that the dislocation could not be noticed unless one was purposefully looking for it.

He would have to check later, once he returned home, whether there were videos on the internet that could help him understand how to put his shoulder back into place; he doubted his parents would do anything about it. They normally didn't, unless it was something that could not be ignored or could bring suspicion to what they did in their private lives.

At the far end of the room his mother was found, buttering up other flamboyantly dressed women. Their dresses glimmered under the chandelier's magical light that constantly switched colors, from soft red, to blue, then to lime yellow. His mom, with her perfectly styled red curls-which he inherited-and smiling glossy pink lips, looked the prettiest of them all in her violet silk dress. There was not a sign of the woman she was behind closed doors, the ugly witch with sickly skinny arms that occasionally pinched his skin until it turned red, looked at him with bloodshot whites from where she laid on the couch and whispered nonsense talk after inhaling the weird powder that made him ill. She didn't look like the monster that yelled at him about how he should have never been born, her voice raspy, hysterical, snot running down her nose and black tears staining her cheeks from the eyeliner she'd applied earlier in case she decided to go out. _The only reason you exist is because your dick of a father never learned how to put on a fucking condom properly!_

Those days Norwin would just stare back at her mutely, his green eyes shining with unshed tears. She would get angrier at his silence and curse him for having his father's eyes. After the tantrum was over and she was passed out on the floor due to the taxing effort of screaming her lungs out caused her, he would return to his room, cheek palpitating from her palm meeting his face, sit on his bed, turn on his computer and investigate the meaning of the word condom.

His father was instead at the center of a large group, mingling with what looked like important people. People from work most likely. His father, from what he had occasionally heard of phone conversations and quiet exchanges with his mom regarding work, was the assistant of some "big shot from the Empire", whatever that was supposed to mean. But if Norwin knew stuff was that anything related to the Empire was highly important and logically, it was because of his dad's connection to the Empire that they had the luxuries they had and he was forced to assist these boring reunions at least once a month. He wasn't allowed to play with the other kids so he had to stand alone in a corner, watching his parents lick up the asses of wealthier and superior people in order to gain more wealth and benefits of their own.

All he could do was stand, shoulders squared and head high as his father smiled the charming smile he was known for (the same smile that captivated her at first, his mom had told him one day in a sudden moment of clarity, her hazel eyes strangely focused as they rarely were at home, her smile bitter and, in a way, genuine), shaking the hands of old, fat men in expensive ridiculous suits. He charmed everyone he came into contact with, directing at them his wide green eyes-the eyes Norwin saw everyday in his bathroom mirror-that inspired both trust and charm.

Right here, in this place, among the highest of Niflheim's elite, he wasn't the man Norwin had known for as long as he had been alive, the man he had come to fear and the second monster under his bed.

No one knew that lying dormant underneath his attractive façade was the kind of man who was capable of throwing frying pans at his wife's head just because he didn't like how she cooked. No one knew about that time he had threatened to burn Norwin's arm on the stove if he dared touch his books again, or that other time his father punched him so hard for dropping juice on the new carpet that he had been absent from school for more than a week to avoid anyone seeing his bruised face. Oh, and how could he forget, there was also that time he was pushed down the stairs since, as his dad had so eloquently put into words: _I was tired of seeing your pussy as fuck mug. Stop being such a bitch like your worthless mother._

No one saw the real face of Stephen Crestbow, the same way that no one got a glimpse of what Sophia Crestbow was truly like.

Only Norwin had that pleasure.

He sighed, tore his gaze away from his laughing father, who was now speaking to a very weirdly dressed man that gave the small boy the idea that hobos apparently could be a part of high society too.

Clenching his hands, he wondered if anyone out there lived life the same as he did. If there were other six year olds in the world that lived terrorized by their parents too. Albeit, as he remembered the happy families he'd seen on TV, the joy on his classmates faces speaking about their moms and dads and their normal lives, he understood that no, his situation was not the norm for every kid in Niflheim (or in Eos, for that matter).

Resentment wasn't a feeling Norwin was unaccustomed to, however he often pushed it aside before it could fester inside him or before he had the chance to dwell on what following that emotion would entail. But now, for the first time in six years, he let a feeling no other kid his age should feel grow; he allowed himself to submerge in the toxic bitterness of the feelings he harbored for Stephen and Sophia.

He glared at them from across the ball room, the bruises on his arms pulsing like small heartbeats all over his body and reminding him of their sins. Of the way they had shown him "love" over and over.

Almost in the background, he was able to hear the laughter of children playing and chasing, while he stood alone and forgotten in the land of adults. The sound was tempting, sweet like vanilla ice cream, a siren's song.

What if…

What was the worst that could happen? What was stopping him from going outside too? The fear of being beaten, of their yelling, of their abuse? Did it matter? Either way, as soon as they returned home one of them would find an excuse to do all of the above and more. So was it worth it, standing there doing nothing when he could be having fun?

In a moment of recklessness, Norwin threw one spiteful look in his parents' direction and decided to break the rules set by a druggie mother and a violent father for the first time in his short life.

Aware that Sophia and Stephen would not notice his absence until it was too late to do anything about it, he slipped quietly through the same door the running kids that passed by him had used minutes ago and easy as blinking, he had securely escaped to the mansion's garden. The night stars and the humid air that normally announced the arrival of rain greeted him as soon as he set foot outside; a cold breeze assaulted him and when he moved his arms to brace himself, he bit his tongue as a result of the waves of pain coming from his dislocated shoulder. Overwhelmed, tears clouded his vision and he thought he tasted blood for a second- he must have bit his tongue at some point.

Crap, he had to be more careful. How was he supposed to play with the others if he couldn't even protect himself from the cold without feeling like his arm was going to fall off? He shook his head, curly strands of ginger hair moving along with him, and told himself to endure the hurt.

"Are… are you okay?"

Just then, a sweet squeaky voice pulled him rashly out of his thoughts. He felt his heart freeze inside his chest because okay, he wasn't exactly prepared to meet new people yet. Still, his body reacted on its own. Instinctually, he looked up only to be met….

With the most beautiful boy he had ever seen.

Blond straight hair. Brilliant blue eyes, the blue of the sky projected in those big irises. His face was round, youthful; freckles were scattered all over his nose and cheekbones. This mysterious boy dressed in red shorts and a long sleeved light blue shirt under a burgundy vest was looking at Norwin as if he were worried, and wow, he was… he was beautiful.

Definitely Norwin at six years olds was no poet.

"Umm…" he said coherently "I'm okay."

"Really? You don't look like it."

The redhead opened his mouth but found himself closing it just as soon. Teeth made a squeaking sound as he did. He discovered he didn't have it in him to conjure up a lie to appease this boy.

They blinked at each other, without a clue of what to say next.

The boy's toothpick legs were shaking; maybe he was cold. Norwin felt tempted to take off his suit's jacket and offer the garment to the blond kid, after all, there was only so much a pair of shorts and knee high socks could do against the current weather.

"I…"

Metallic noise drew them away from their awkward stances-the blue eyed boy straightened up from his timid posture, and Norwin pretended his arm didn't hurt like hell. Their wide eyed stares turned from each other to focus on the silhouette coming their way. Crimson eyes, soulless and unblinking, returned their inquisitive looks from an artificial face just as unperturbed as those glaring orbs. The magitek trooper's feet clanked with every step it took, moving with a solid pace, not an ounce of hesitation in its movements. On its claw-like hands the soldier held a brand new machine gun pointed towards the grass.

Norwing felt a cold sweat start to form on his brow-he hated those freaking things.

 _Something more than slaves, something less than humans._ That is what his father had told him, words struggling to come out through the haze of an alcohol muddled mind, trying to describe what exactly MTs were. Husks made to resemble humanity but lacking in its pure essence, they were ridden of emotions, of pain, of hunger or needs; perfect little weapons for the battlefield but unable to hold a candle to the real deal out of it. Not that the scientists or anybody, really, cared about that as long as they followed orders with no complaints.

The Empire owed the mass production of magitek for their military prowess, it was thanks to these machines that the scales had turned in their favor, allowing them to fight back against Lucis and eventually, overpower their comparatively lesser forces. Ardyn Izunia, the actual Chancellor of Niflheim, was the man who first introduced this idea of utilizing magitek infantry to Emperor Aldercapt and Imperial Research Minister Verstael Besithia, practically buying himself a raise between ranks due to this fate-changing feat. If it wasn't for him, the Empire wouldn't have become the powerhouse that it was nowadays.

Not that Norwin knew any of this. Yet. His age allowed him to remain ignorant of the many goings and comings of the real world for at least a couple of years more, until the proper time for him to confront his reality as a citizen of Gralea-and everything else included with that notion- plus his duties as his father's son arrived.

(Otherwise, he would have known that the hobo speaking to his dad was not a hobo at all.)

As of present, all he knew was that MTs made him feel uneasy. The other child seemed to share this sentiment; he and Norwin looked nervously at the ground and at the metal trooper as it walked past them, heading straight for the ballroom where other MTs stood guard posted at the walls, or were patrolling the area to counterattack any possible threats.

Once it had left, the redhead felt his lungs begin to function again.

He put a hand to his chest, the maddening beats of his heart pumping beneath. "Wow, that was crazy."

His green stare met the liquid blue of the unnamed kid who nodded back at him, freckled hands cleaning off sweat on his vest. "They give me the creeps too. But don't tell my dad, I don't think he'd approve of me saying that." Oh, Norwin frowned at the mention of the word 'dad'. His mood soured. He was sure that his own dad would do more than disapprove when he found out Norwin had gone out without permission.

So maybe he felt a tiny bit of bitterness towards this beautiful boy whose biggest worry was receiving a loving scolding from his father.

"I don't even know who your dad is. Not that I would tell either way." He replied softly, looking moodily to the side.

One of those freckled hands appeared in his line of vision, palm open and inviting. "My name is Prompto Izunia." He said, as if somehow revealing his name was some kind of life changing event, as if Norwin was supposed to know what that meant.

(Years later he will look back upon this seemingly innocent first encounter and curse his lucky stars and every deity out there in the universe, because out of all the people he could have fallen in love with, out of all the people he could have shared a special connection with-

It had to be with _that man's_ son.)

The smile that the newly named Prompto-not mysterious cute boy anymore-gave him had the blood accumulating on his cheeks at an alarming speed, and it was that simple gesture, the ray of happiness that was that beautiful face as he smiled, that prompted Norwin to grab his slender hand in a firm handshake.

"Nice to meet you, Prompto. I'm Norwin Crestbow."

* * *

Green. Green was a beautiful color, he thought. Strange as it was on Niflheim, he had always felt attracted to it.

The Empire's extreme industrialization had wiped almost any trace of it, of his favorite shade: the green of nature. Vibrant, pure, full of something the snowy and grey landscapes of his home lacked. Maybe he liked the color due to its rareness. He didn't remember ever seeing a tree in Gralea; only in Tenebrae, with its abundant flora, had he the chance to lay eyes on one of those.

Or maybe it was because the color somehow represented all living things. Whenever he looked at it, he felt relieved thinking there were still things worth fighting for in this wretched world.

He never imagined how torn he would feel looking at the green he had loved once, glassy and washed out, on his face. He never thought green could ever look lifeless, not the way it looked that tragic afternoon on the bloody visage of the boy with the pure green eyes. Those eyes that had shown him once a wide variety of emotions were now devoid of anything Prompto associated with the color. And he couldn't, for the little life he still clung to in desperation, think it was beautiful.

No. Green stopped being beautiful the instant Norwin's heart had ceased to beat.

Choking on sobs, his intestines and life source seeping like venom out of his pierced abdomen, his lungs refusing to inhale the stagnant air of death and decay that reigned in the crashed bus, he was unable to reach what remained of Norwin Crestbow. He considered trying to crawl supporting the weight of his body on his elbows, but one of his arms was rendered completely useless and the other was pressing the wound on his stomach.

Sprawled on the ground, immobile, defenseless and utterly alone, Prompto felt a vital part of him finally break. His sanity or something else, he didn't know. After years and years of resisting, he couldn't protect it any longer. This was the end of the fight, of the struggle, of hopes and dreams of freedom.

This was the part where innocence could no longer hold on.

Prompto shattered hard. He cried and yelled and screamed and hollered and cursed and heaved. Retired from reality, stuck in a world in between where only visceral emotions seemed to live on when everything else died, the nauseous smell of smoke managed to reach him as, did the gleam of flames. Something was burning.

Meanwhile, the dead eyes of his classmates judged him, observed his futile movements, laughed at his fruitless efforts. Matilde, a girl he knew since he was five years old, smiled back at him at the same time her eyes melted off her face, pupils and sclera and irises liquefying and mixing together into a mass of gory goo that slid down her face, leaving a trail of disgusting pasty water of blood and ocular globe. She was still smiling when all that was left in place of her eyes were empty sockets, red strings and red meat signaling that not too long ago there had been eyeballs tied to those strings, eyeballs covering the horrifying sight lying behind them.

Zen Martin's cheeks were peeling, layers and layers of skin falling off his face, uncovering the anatomy of his skull. The corner's of Lita's lips began expanding in a sinister grin that tore at her mouth, snapped at the skin of her cheeks, created new lines that grew in the direction of her ears; blood cascaded from this growing wound, this bloody smile that could rival any clown's and it was without a doubt a sight Prompto wish he could erase from his mind forever. All around him, the corpses appeared to gain life only to deform in the most horrible of ways, and Gods, if it hadn't been for the impending threat of his stomach escaping through his wound, he would have thrown up everything he had ever eaten in the course of sixteen years.

And then- his grasp on what was fantasy or reality slowly fading-he heard a tired sigh. A familiar sigh. A noise he'd listened to several times in his lifetime; when he made a mistake while doing homework, when he burst into tears, when he didn't carry out an order as well as he was expected to, when he came home with a grade 'unbecoming' of him, when he did anything that could disappoint **him** at all.

The disappointed sigh of a father having to deal with his son's shenanigans.

And he closed his eyes, because he didn't want to see. He didn't want to ever see anything again. And he hated, hated with every fiber of his being, with every section of his soul.

Blood dripped out of his mouth.

"I… hate… you…."

Chuckles. The scent of violence, blood, threats and lies. The embodiment of darkness. He chuckled but he was pissed out of his goddamn mind. He had to be; otherwise he wouldn't have done-

"You hate me? How cute. What an adorable child I've raised. Here you are, on the verge of meeting with your Ancestors and you still have the gall to-"

Harsh breathing. His voice started to elevate nearing the end of the sentence but he broke off. Instead, sounds of glass filled in the silence; goodbye to the remaining windows.

"As you might have noticed by now, that was sarcasm. Your attitude stopped being cute a long time ago, if it ever was. I am done playing along with your little charade of teenage rebellion."

"Charades?...Pla-playing? You are the one who plays games… we're all pawns on your chessboard, and you get mad when we don't act the way you want us to…..I…I was only trying to become the only self-aware…wanted to break free…"

Fingers pulled roughly at his hair, forcing him to raise his head. These were fingers that had been forcing him to do things his entire life. Terrible things, unspeakable things. "Break free, huh. What a childish notion, son. You see, pawns are expendable. That is true, and their fate while it is indeed planned, it's in fact of little relevance. However, pieces like the Queen are not expendable. She is the most important piece in chess and anyone who might tell you differently is a fool. Therefore, the King cannot win without his Queen. And don't you already know, my Prompto, that he can't let her go? That she is but the only piece that cannot 'break free'?"

Vile, vile were the words this man said and vile was the real meaning in them.

"Fuck you!"

His cheek stung, more blood accumulated on the tip of his tongue. The palm that struck him cupped his swollen face. "You will stop this nonsense. I thought you were better than this. I thought you had matured at last. Can't you see that _this_ , all of this, happened because of your irresponsible actions?"

 **"Prompto."**

His name. That was his name (that was ownership). Being pronounced with so many contradictory emotions in the grave voice: indignation, pride, disappointment, appreciation, hunger, indifference, coldness, warmth, yearning, rejection.

It was fucked up, everything was so fucking fucked up…

"Open your eyes."

He did.

* * *

The boy, his son, his Prompto, the baby he chose to keep out of a whim, the young man he had done everything for, opened his eyes and glared at him with vivid emotion. The passion in that blue sea, that incomprehensible quantity of feelings encompassed inside them, the fire that refused to be put out even after what had just occurred, even after his entire world was turned upside down and he only hung to consciousness by a very thin thread; no, not solely that, his whole self, his body, his soul, the maddening beat of his heart, the sweet flow of blood running hot through his veins, his still rosy lips, the beauty of his that never tarnished despite the circumstances, the allure he never lost and was merely heightened the more he was hurt, the more he suffered. Yes, he was perfect. From his toes, to his blond head he was perfect. And he was his. This was his creation sixteen years later from its birth in all its full glory, ready to be claimed.

All these little details, these little components that formed perfection stirred a heat in his navel, struck a chord somewhere deep, awakened the beast, the whispers of monsters and nightmares and he wanted, he wanted to lean down and strike, ignore decorum, put aside his well planned strategies, in favor of satisfying the maddening hunger that could not be ceased, could not be quenched until he had the ultimate taste of the marvelous creature at his feet (where he was meant to be): his son, his Prompto, his beauty, his…

There was no breaking free. There never would be.

It was only a moment, only a second in which he allowed indulgence and succumbed to the ambrosia of those bleeding lips. He leaned down and took what was his, what had been stolen by somebody else- an unworthy pest-, because his ego wouldn't permit him to be reduced to their level… and yet…

He tasted his blood, his son's blood which was his own, and felt the slender body tremble under his hold, under the press of his demanding mouth. The remainder that this had not been the first time for him, that he had not been the one to conquer his Prompo's mouth first, caused him to want to erupt in anger, destroy everything in his path, destroy the insolent brat again and again, and grab his son's thin neck and squeeze the betrayal out of him.

(Sometimes he wanted to **kill him** but then again, not even death had the power to break the bond that united father and son in an eternal cycle of destruction).

Yes, he was still mad. But punishment had already been dealt. So all he did was continue to kiss his property as the world around them kept burning to the ground. As it was meant to be.

* * *

"You disobeyed me. You lied to me. You insulted **me** , the one who cares for you, **who loves you the most** … I even humored you for a while, son, I trusted you enough to think you would eventually return to my side and start to see the wrong in your ways… But you never did. You kept spiraling down this drain leading nowhere because of that… that boy."

"He was no good for you. In the end, you must understand, everything I do is for your sake. And this… act, while heinous it was done for your own good, for your wellbeing. I did this for you. I love you, more than anyone ever will, more than anyone ever can. I had to intervene so you could face the consequences of your mistakes."

"Tell me, was it worth it? Your 'freedom', your 'independence', your moment of 'revelry', were they worth the catastrophe you have caused, the people you have killed, the innocent children that died as a result of your insolence? Can you live with that knowledge, my boy, that you sent them to their deaths because you were not able to control your hormones and stupidity?"

And the mouth of the wolf swallowed him up in its bite.

* * *

 **"Shhhh. Hush. Sleep now. When you wake, you will see the extent of the damage you've done."**


End file.
